


Yes Sir, I Can Boogie

by fractalsinthesky



Series: flint and tinder [2]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Fluff, Other, Rated teen for language, nonbinary deputy, unabashed fluff, you can't tell me there was only one roller rink in hope county
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 14:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalsinthesky/pseuds/fractalsinthesky
Summary: Running from the Chosen in their planes, Sharky and the Deputy stumble across a blast from his past. The nostalgic  detour could spark a change in their future.





	Yes Sir, I Can Boogie

It was hard to keep his sense of direction when he was tearing through the hills, darting from cover to cover while the jackass in the plane screaming overhead kept spitting bullets at his head, whizzing by so close he could feel the rapid thuds through the soles of his sneakers as they churned the dry earth behind him. He gasped in clouds of dusty near-death as he scrabbled at the gulch’s edge, gut already plummeting while his center of gravity teetered, still deliberating. A frantic ‘oh shit’ hit him about the same time as two hundred-odd pounds of bone, muscle, and sweat-soaked camo, and then the decision is out of his hands as the sky wheeled clumsily over his head and under his feet, pain flaring in random bursts as his neck, ribs, knees, elbows were forcibly introduced to rocks, sticks, thorns.

No thanks, he thought at them, wincing as they fell behind him in his rapid descent. No thanks, one friend that knocks you off a freakin’ cliff was pretty much maxing him out on the whole social activity thing. Don’t need anybody else, thank you very much. They’d at least had the good grace to fall with him, though, and he caught flashes of them tumbling to his left, in between the alternating blurs of trees, rocks, and sky. Then his shoulder slammed up against a tree trunk that would’ve broken his neck if it’d been five inches further to the right, and he grabbed for it, palms screaming against the rough bark.

“F-fuckin’ shit!” he gulped, sneakers scrabbling at the slope until he got a good purchase, and then looked around for his friend. “Dep? Y’okay?”

“Holy shit!” Their voice floated up from a cloud of dust further down the gully. “Guess that’s the short way down, yeah?”

“Christ.” He used the tree to haul himself up, glowering at the sky. No sign of the plane. He started down the slope, stepping carefully perpendicular to the steeper sections. His palms were torn up and throbbing, but no bleeding, so it was fine. He slapped the grit off of his sweatshirt and coughed a little when dust puffed up in his face. He kept an ear out for the drone of a plane engine as he went, but by the time he reached the cool gravel bed at the bottom and picked his way over to the Deputy, who'd sprained their ankle and now sported a badass cut over an eyebrow but was otherwise fine, he still hadn’t heard anything.

“C’mon, dumbass,” he grunted, slinging their arm across his shoulders and helping them limp along. The gulch opened out ahead, gravel softening into a sandy culvert and the sound of shallow water moving quickly.

“I hate those goddamn planes,” they grunted, hissing as they tested their bad foot. “Least we shook ‘em.”

“Oh shit, dude,” he said, squinting across the water, not sure if maybe he’d bumped his head during the fall and was seeing shit now, because no way had they run that far north. “You see that?”

“What, that building?”

“Yeah.” He adjusted his cap and let out a low whistle. “Goddamn, man, I thought this place was long gone. Used to-used to be this old arcade, y’know? Little roller rink, bad pizza, cheap beer. Got shut down ‘cause old Mal—the dude who ran the place? Um. Yeah, he never carded, so it was the place to go back in the day.”

“Yeah?” They stepped into the water at his prompting, wading in gingerly until they were far enough to swim. “How long ago was that?”

“Shit, ‘bout a decade, I guess. No-more. Fifteen years back?” He glanced up and down the river as they went, shivering as the icy water flooded his clothes. Never know when one of those stupid boat patrols was gonna come by. “Uh, not ‘cause of all the underage drinking, though. Old Mal was closin’ up one night—takin’ a few pulls of whiskey as he did. I worked there a couple winters, an’ he said it helped with his arthritis. Anyway, he goes to close up the equipment shed out by the dock. Knocked somethin’ off a shelf, hit him on the head. Old Mal goes in the river—never comes out.”

“God, that’s sad,” Dep grimaced, strokes steady, hurt leg lagging just behind the other’s kicks. 

“Yeah—I tell you, man, this place was awesome back in its prime, though.” He picked up the pace, sneakers touching down against rock again. He slogged forward until he could stand, drawing himself up and swaying with the unfamiliar weight of his waterlogged clothes. “Up you get, ‘migo.”

“Dude, it’s twisted, not broken—you don’t gotta baby me,” they grinned, but took the hand he offered, laughing as he pulled them from the water. 

“Baby nothin’,” he snorted, flushing at the warmth of their smile and busying his hands with wringing riverwater out of his hoodie. “I’m just a gentleman, is all. Don’t take it personal on account of your folks not raisin’ you with any manners.”

“Ooh, a gentleman,” they mocked, picking their way over the uneven riverbed towards the dark building ahead. “So-phi-sti-cated Sharky, drinks his wine outta bottles instead of boxes. Lifts his pinky when he’s smokin’ a joint.”

He let out an uncertain laugh, that small voice in his head insisting that they weren’t just ribbing, that they thought he had delusions of class, that he wasn’t acutely aware of how people saw him, how they talked about him. Or maybe they knew he was, but thought he was too stupid to tell the difference between joshin’ and edged sarcasm. But it hadn’t sounded like more than good-natured teasing, had it? He frowned down at his feet as he trudged out of the shallows, trying to decide if he should be offended, skirting the aching, red-edged chasm of lonely need, a low chant floating from its depths, urging him to push and keep pushing until he forced them out of his life, regardless of whether they were actually making fun of him or not. If they really liked him, they’d stay, right? But they wouldn’t, because he was shit, and when push came to shove, people always left.

“Shark. You okay?” They were peering at him with concern, shuffling to face him fully, one hand fretting with their jacket sleeve. 

“What, ‘Sharky’ isn’t short enough for you?” he cracked, shaking his head and smiling as best he could. “That’s just straight up lazy, Dep. Ain’t you supposed to be like-like a role model or somethin’?”

They grinned, relief around the corners of their eyes, and waited for him to draw alongside before walking on. “Some fuckin’ role model. When’s the last time you saw me eat a vegetable?”

He gave a stuttering laugh, the panic ebbing with their comfortable proximity. The late afternoon sun was a few inches from the tops of the pines, and it warmed the damp fabric of his hoodie and the starchy cling of his jeans. Felt good.

“Uh, not to get super heavy or anything, but,” Rook ducked their head, clearing their throat. “It’s sweet. From you, I mean. I appreciate it, but I’m not used to it, you know? The chivalry thing.”

“Oh,” he said, cheeks heating. “Okay.” 

“Sorry for givin’ you shit.” 

“It’s cool, dude,” he shrugged, hoping they studiously weren’t looking at him as much as he studiously wasn’t looking at them. 

Was this just a pity bone they were throwin’ him for a bad joke, or did they really mean it? Or was it something else? Telling him they liked that he looked after them. ‘Sweet’ could be good, could be an invitation to get closer, but it could also be a gentle rebuke—sweet like a brother, sweet like a friend, sweet like ‘you’re fun to hang out with, but nothing’s ever gonna happen so don’t even try it or I’ll laugh in your face at the Homecoming dance in front of everyone’. Sweet could go both ways.

He chewed at his bottom lip, focusing on the building ahead. Don’t think about it. He didn’t usually think before advertising his interest, but with Dep it was different. They were his first new friend in a long time, and he didn’t want to fuck that up. Plus he wasn’t even sure what their deal was—like, he was pretty sure he’d heard them flirting with a couple chicks a while back, but they’d mentioned an ex-boyfriend a few times. They sure as hell hadn’t been seriously into anyone for the past month or two. He’d know if they had—apart from a few odd days when Dep’d been dealing with some minor kidnapping, they’d been together just about 24/7. He definitely would’ve noticed if they’d been knockin’ boots with anyone. 

The old skate rink wasn’t boarded up with the desperate cult-anticipation of most other businesses around the county—just a thin veiling of plywood over the windows and an iron padlock over the front entrance. The back hadn’t even been given that much attention—they’d probably just locked up as normal and figured nobody would care enough to force it. Sharky had expected it to have been long-since broken into by petty thieves, horny teens, or the raiding parties the cult had out combing the county, but out of some kind of fish-eyed providence, it was still secure.

“So, uh, you got this, or d’you want me to bust it in?” he asked, giving the door an idle kick and leaving a muddy print on the cracked green paint.

“I got it,” they said, fishing through their pockets for picks, finally extricating them from the wet denim with a grimace. “Gross. We should camp out here. Dry our shit, see if there’s any loot, let the patrols think we’ve moved on.”

He nodded, leaning against the wooden siding while they set to work on the lock. “Fine by me, chief.”

More than fine, actually. It would be the first night they’d spent above-ground since they’d left the prison, and while he was always grateful for the added security and the inherent supply boost that came with camping in other people’s bunkers, it’d be nice to wake up without that sick sweat, the intangible sense of pressure from the surrounding dark, the unshakable thought of being buried. 

Besides, if he remembered correctly, Old Mal used to keep a stash of giant candy bars to dole out as prizes, and he could just about murder a stack of Milky Ways right now.

“Got it,” said Dep, smiling smugly as the lock gave and the door swung inward.

“Fuckin’ A, dude.” He waited for them to go, but they grinned and made a sweeping gesture, inviting him to go first. 

“You used to work here, right? Care to give me the grand tour?”

He laughed, adjusting his cap self-consciously and stepping through the shadowed doorway. “Man, I only worked here for like, four months total. Seasonal at first, then full-time when my folks went. It was a sweet little gig, but, y’know. Weird.”

A bright circle illuminated the supply room, and he felt a pang of deja vu at the familiar stacks of paper towels, the cheap chrome racks lined with bottles of bleach and soap dispenser cartridges, cardboard boxes of garbage can liners. Mop handles and pushbrooms were hung up on the wall, and the ancient vacuum cleaner with its tangled cord huddled in the corner. Everything was muted in a soft layer of dust, cobwebs tracing lines across the shelves and ceilings. 

“Weird in what way?” they asked, voice lowered. They nudged his elbow with an unlit flashlight, and he took it with a nod of thanks.

“Uh. Just bein’ on the other side of it, y’know? Havin’ come here as a kid, just havin’ fun and shit, then uh, actually helping it run. Cookin’ the pretzels and stuff. Weird.” He flicked the light on, ran it over the rest of the room briefly, then trained it on the cracked door. “Mal ran this place on a genny. We can get the house lights up and stuff if we get to the basement.”

“Mm, sounds good.” They pulled the door open the rest of the way, casting the thin beam of their light out into the main space and letting out a low whistle. “This place is huge.”

“Nah, man, just feels that way ‘cause it’s empty,” he shrugged. “It’s actually a lot smaller than the other rink.”

“And that’s the one y—ah, the one that burned down?” they asked, playing their light over the concession window and shoe rental stand to the right, and the silent arcade booths against the opposite wall. It diffused too much across the tables and benches to make out the scratched pink laminate he’d picked at as a scabby-kneed kid. Hundreds of grease-soaked paper plates had been slapped down here, slices of pizza with gummy crust and not enough cheese. Red plastic cups sweating, soda diluting as crushed ice melted. It was so quiet that the sound of their breathing, the thump of his heart was overloud, but he thought he could hear the rattling scrape of skates going over the wooden rink, faintly. Was it even possible for this place to still smell like popcorn?

“Uh, yeah.” He shook his head, switching the light to the three doors on the far left. Game supplies—pylons in neon colors, candy-striped hula hoops, black nylon belts with plastic flags attached with velcro for team play, rubber balls ranging in size from wiffle- to maternity yoga, and hundreds of folding chairs. The huddled dinosaur shape of the floor waxer. “Fuck, this is weird, dude.”

They stopped, gingerly touching his arm in concern. “You okay? Do you-do you want to go? We don’t have to stay here.”

“Nah, it’s fine, really. Just fuckin’ surreal.” He flashed them a smile. “Let’s get the lights on, though—you’re gonna love it, I promise.”

They grinned back, giving him a quick pat before jerking their head in the direction of the shoe stand. “Did you guys sell merch?”

He blinked and nodded. “Yeah—there might be some shirts and shit up behind the order counter. Go nuts, man.”

“Yes!” they hissed, jogging over and vaulting the counter. “You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good,” he said, heading toward the basement. “My shit’s almost dry anyway. Holler if any Peggies show up or anything.”

“You got it!”

The basement door wasn’t locked, and he managed the narrow stairs with the ease of remembered practice. Mal hadn’t been a stickler for general cleanliness or exact change or the law, but the man had been abso-friggin'-lutely militant about maintaining his generator, and even after fifteen-odd years of neglect in his absence the thing purred to life gratefully.

“Hell yeah,” he muttered, listening to it chug for a bit before heading back up. It was a comforting sound. He toyed with the idea of throwing the basement lights just to see the little room fill up with the pale soothing buzz of fluorescence, but the idea of surprising Dep with the full glory of Mal’s baby and one of his most presentable childhood haunts was more appealing, so he hurried back up the stairs.

The main lights were up by the DJ console. He swung the small sty open and trailed his palm along the smooth coolness of the wall before throwing the switches. The rink glowed, glad for attention after so long in darkness, the pale blue floor glimmering under the warm yellow shining over the shoe racks, like the lights at the marina winking out over the lake. He hummed, taking a deep breath of the vaguely popcorn-and-dust-flavored air and grinning at the dull planetary patterning spread out on the purple carpet. He’d forgotten about that.

“Holy shit—you were right, Sharky! This place is awesome!” Rook hopped over the counter, smiling ear to ear. They’d ditched their old clothes and put on a tie-dyed shirt about three sizes too big, with WHY B H8IN’ WHEN U COULD BE SK8IN’ on the front, and a pair of purple mesh shorts.

“Oh my God, dude,” he snorted, tearing his eyes off the dim flash of their strong calves. “That’s a good look for you. Gonna be a real hit on those wanted posters.”

“Psh, like fashion criticism from a dude who wears the same hoodie every day is gonna faze me.” They walked out onto the rink, looking up at the hanging discoball. “You think we can get this going?”

“Fuck you, man, no disco for dickbags that mock the threads,” he scowled, leaning over the console. The old hoodie was getting a little rank, though. That dip in the river hadn’t helped. He guessed it could stand a wash. And he’d been bumming around in jeans stained with everything from hot sauce to blood to fuckin’ bear shit for at least a week.

“Listen, don’t get me wrong—it works for you, but it’s not a universal aesthetic.” They tested the floor with their sneaker. “I’ve never skated before.”

“Wha—are you frickin’ serious?” His jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t—don’t lie to me on this, Dep. You’ve never skated?”

“Cross my heart,” they said, raising a hand. “Didn’t have a rink in my town. Also, never had any friends that were into it.”

He rolled his eyes, toggling the lighting and setting the discoball turning. “You’re damn lucky you got me, Dep, I tell you what. Get over to the rack and get some freakin’ shoes.”

They grinned, looking up at the silvery specks of light dancing over the ceiling, lifting their hands to see it dancing over their palms. It was the cutest thing he’d seen in a while. His neck felt hot, and he cleared his throat, tapping the wooden stall and jogging across the floor.

“You comin’ or what?” he called over his shoulder, unzipping his hoodie and shrugging it off impatiently. “I’m gonna start a load—we got a washer downstairs. Want me to throw your shit in?”

“Fuck, yes please.” 

He waved over his head to show that he’d heard and went to the concessions stand, hopping behind it and scooping their wet shirt, jacket, and pants from the floor. He eyed the remaining clothes hanging on the wall. Not a whole lot that’d fit him, but he should be okay. Also plenty of chip bags and candy stocked behind the counter—fucking score. He snagged a Milky Way and ripped the top off, taking a bite and letting the chocolate soften against the roof of his mouth, the caramel immediately sticking against his teeth.

“Ugh, Dep, you gotta get some snacks,” he mumbled through the mouthful of sugar, stuffing the rest of the bar into his mouth and leaving the wrapper on the floor. He grabbed another for the road, setting it on top of the clothes pile.

“For sure. What size shoes you wear?” They had grabbed a few pairs from the racks and were checking the tongues to ensure the sizing was correct.

“Eleven,” he called. “An’ they tend to run big here, just so you know.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” he said, kicking the basement door open and heading down the stairs. 

He should’ve turned the lights on before. He stumbled on the last step but caught himself before eating shit. He got the switch with his elbow and loaded the washer, stripping off his shirt and pants and adding them in on top of the rest of the clothes. He started the water and slopped a half-cup of powdered detergent in, then shut the lid. In twenty-five to thirty minutes, if he remembered this machine’s quirk correctly, he’d have to come back down and give it a kick to get the cycle to finish, but otherwise they should be good to go.

He jogged back upstairs, enjoying the cool air against his bare torso and legs. Been wearin’ pants for way too long—that’s just no way to fuckin’ live. He’d get rid of the briefs too, but he wasn’t sure if Dep would appreciate the view. And he probably wouldn’t care if they were just some rando passing in and out of his life, but getting some fresh air down south wasn’t worth the possibility of making them uncomfortable. 

They’d sat down on the benches and laced into a pair of skates, shuffling their feet idly over the carpet while they waited. They raised their brows in incredulous glee at the sight of him trotting past, letting out a playful wolf whistle. He grinned back at them, flipping them off over his shoulder as he edged behind the concession counter.

“Whoo, Boshaw! Really rockin’ those tightey-whiteys, my dude!”

“Listen shorty,” he declared, struggling to unpin the biggest mesh shorts left up on the board. “The key to pullin’ off any look, uh, is confidence, and you know I look good, because-because I know I look good.”

“Fair. Also um, I think this is the first time I’ve seen your whole sleeve?” they said, with a note of interest that made him look over his shoulder. “Looks good. Your ink, I mean. It’s a nice tat.”

“Thanks,” he grinned, holding his arm out so they could get a better look. He also may have flexed a little. “Set me back a bit when I got it, but, y’know. That shit is forever. It’s gotta look fuckin’ tight.”

They nodded, tucking their feet under them. “The gradient is nice. Smooth, but like…still distinct. I’ve been wanting to get one, but I don’t know any artists around here.”

“Dude, there’s fuckin’ nobody around here worth going to,” he said, shaking his head. “You gotta go over to Springer County—that’s where me an’ Hurk go.”

“Yeah?” they grinned. “My apartment’s just over the county line. We should go sometime.” Their face fell, and their gaze dropped to the floor. “Y’know. When all this shit is over.”

His heart leapt, and he bit his tongue to keep from blurting out something embarrassing about how he’d fucking love that, how much of a dizzying relief it was that they would actually want to hang out with him after the crisis had passed. 

“Uh, for sure, man,” he said instead, finally getting the shorts off the board and hiking them up over his hips. “That’d be really cool.”

“Cool,” they answered awkwardly, still sounding down. 

He yanked the closest shirt down from the wall—something with electric green around the cuffs and collar and inscrutable squiggles in blue and pink. Whatever—he shrugged it on and grabbed a few candybars from below the till and headed over to them, plopping down on the bench at their side and dumping the candy in their lap.

“Uh. Skatin’ fuel. Eat up, Dep,” he said, taking the size eleven skates they handed him and pulling them on. Too small. He got up and felt around on the shelves until he found a pair of twelves, the sound of plastic crinkling behind him.

“Thanks, Shark.” 

“For sure—there’s tons back there. So,” he settled back next to them and pulled on the new pair, tying the laces tight and watching them sidelong. “You got tats already, then?”

“Oh, uh—” they stuffed the rest of their candybar in their mouth, a dim blush growing across their cheeks. “Huffoo.”

He grinned. “What was that?”

They swallowed. “A few.”

“Can I see ‘em?” he asked innocently, adjusting the collar of his too-small shirt, sliding his feet forward and back to test the wheels. Smooth.

They smiled at him, eyes sly. “I thought we were skating.”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” he nodded, getting up and offering them a hand. Disappointed, but not really surprised. Didn’t mean they couldn’t have a good time, though. “C’mon, it’ll be sweet.”

They took it, grabbing at his forearms with panicked strength as their skates wobbled. He adjusted automatically, the instinctive movement giving him a warm glow of pride. 

“You’re good—takes a bit to get used to ‘em. You balanced?”

They hovered their hands over his for a moment, then straightened, nodding. “Yeah. The weight is weird, but I think I got it.”

“Cool, cool. Now push forward—just kinda sweep with each foot, lead with your toes. It’ll go, y’know, it’ll go faster on the rink, but carpet’s good for gettin’ used to the motion an’ shit.”

They took a few slow strides, wobbling a little but staying upright and grinning ear to ear. “Okay, nice. To the rink?”

“To the fuckin’ rink, bro!” He walked them over to the entrance, staying close by in case they lost their balance again. 

They stepped onto the polished wood, knees tense, momentum carrying them a few feet forward in a gentle glide. “Whoa—huh, this is cool.”

He loved to see them happy—he just fuckin’ loved it. How the hell had they never done this before? Criminal, that’s what it was, that they’d been missing out all these years. He felt a protective heat flare up in his chest. If anyone could make up for twenty-eight odd years without a roller rink experience in a brief respite from a cult apocalypse, it would be him, with God as his witness.

“Okay, you stay by the wall and get used to moving. I’ll be right back, chief.” 

He skated over to the DJ rink access, clonking up the stairs and fiddling with the console. He brought up the colored beams, casting pools of green, purple, red, and blue on the floor. The audio system crackled when he flipped it on, trailing off in a thin whine of feedback while he paged through the CD booklet. He’d burned a couple special mixes back in the day, patching together some of his favorites, and even if they hadn’t been a big hit with the crowd at the time, he knew Dep’d be able to appreciate it.

He found it, 'Awesome Jams' scribbled sloppily across the silver face. He slipped it into the drive and waited for the familiar swell of strings before raising the volume, filling the abandoned space with the brassy warmth of old music. Good. Made the whole thing less sad. Also, fuck, it had been forever since he’d gotten access to his tunes. Hadn’t been home in a few weeks, and it wasn’t like the radio had more than the two or three most popular songs from the era. Sure as shit hadn’t heard Baccara on any of the remaining stations.

Dep was taking longer strides, their fingertips grazing the wall in fading caution, and he could tell by their eager grin that they were itching to go faster. Light reflected from the disco ball glittered over their dark hair and long arms. They’d circled halfway around the rink already. He headed back down, pushing each step to catch up with them more quickly, gut fluttering at the rush of momentum. Shit, he’d missed that feeling.

“You’re a natural, Dep!” he hollered as he got closer, clapping as he slalomed to cut his speed. 

They laughed and bobbed in a careful bow. “Well, when you’re learning from the master…”

“Psh,” he snorted, chest puffing only a little. “I dunno about ‘master’…” Then he flashed them a grin and pushed off, leaning with the momentum into a tight circle that put him ahead of them and cruising backwards. “Just kiddin’. I am the master. Sharky Boshaw—best skater slash stunt driver slash giver of head.”

Dep laughed, holding their hands out to him. “How fast can you go?”

He took them, returning the friendly squeeze with a wink. “With the right tunes? Speed of sound, babe. Keep your knees bent.”

He increased his speed, dropping their right hand and falling back to their side, pulling them along gently while they adjusted to going faster. They wobbled a little, fingers tensing around his wrist, and he eyed them warily, making sure they weren’t losing their balance. They got it under control, though, and started striding faster with a nervous laugh. They passed into a flood of red and glanced at him with a grin, dark eyes full and glittering, and he swallowed.

Their lips moved, and he spent a good moment just thinking about what it would feel like to kiss them before he realized they’d said something.

“Huh?” he asked.

“I said I’m digging your music!” they repeated, pointing up to the speakers with their free hand.

“Oh, tight,” he grinned, ears hot. “You wanna move to center? I’ll spin ya.”

“Ah! Yes!” They pushed away from the wall, jostling against his side, grabbing at the small of his back for support.

The touch sent a shock up his spine, and he cleared his throat to cover it. They followed him into the middle of the rink, still holding his hand although they were skating with enough confidence that they probably didn’t need to. Sharky wasn’t gonna push the issue, though, more than content to keep their hand in his for as long as they wanted.

They were out in the middle of the rink now, listening to fuckin’ disco and holding hands and he was happier than he’d been in a long time. 

He showed them how to cut a tight spin on their own, making sure they kept their feet parallel and knees bent, telling them that if they did fall, taking it on the side was their best bet. 

“C’mon, man, I thought we were gonna spin,” they said, bobbing anxiously on their toes.

“Okay—yeah, we gotta come at each other,” he said, skating back a few good paces and demonstrating with his hands, “And when you get close, we latch on and sorta hurl each other in opposite directions. You do it right, and we go real fast and it’s a lotta fun. Do it wrong, and we like, smack into each other or just plain fall, but either way it’s still real fun so it don’t matter a whole lot. Ready?”

They nodded.

“C’mon!” 

He pushed off, not as hard as he could, because it had admittedly been a while, and he wanted this to work, but Dep was hurtling towards him with a wild grin that was a little scary and then they were too close to think and he reached out and they locked perfectly, whirling each other around with dizzying speed, and they were both laughing and yelling over the music, going around and around, bound with joyous strength. They were slowing so he got lower and wrenched Dep around faster and faster until they yelped, snorting with laughter. 

“Shark—fuck!” Their skates slipped out from under them and they both went sprawling, elbows and shoulders banging against the smooth floor. 

“Oh shit,” he breathed, rubbing his ribs and laughing, head still whirling. “You good, Dep?” 

“I’m fuckin’ great!” they splayed out on their back, lifting an arm up and giving a thumbs-up to the disco ball. “Oh my god, dude. My heart is hammering.”

“Same.” He hefted himself up, crawling over to sit next to them. “It has been a long-ass time since I’ve skated, man. Thanks for making that happen.”

“You kidding?” They rolled over on their side, propping their head up in one palm. “You’re the one who made this happen. Thank you for teaching me.”

He grinned, looking down at the floor and feeling a blush crawl over his cheeks, toying at his laces clumsily. “’S not hard. You’re good, Dep. At like, everything you do.”

They snorted, reaching over shyly and stilling his fingers, calloused hands tracing gently over his knuckles. “Not true, but thanks. With uh, with you it kinda feels that way, though.”

Felt like someone was pouring something warm and fizzy down his throat, a sweet lightness filling his chest. “That’s-that’s good, right? I mean, I’m glad. I want to, um, to make you feel…you know. Good.”

They looked up at him, eyes calculating, their fingers cautiously lacing with his. “You do. And you can, you know. I feel the same.”

He swallowed, hand tingling, torn between doing something stupid and stupidly doing nothing. And like so often was the case in these situations, his mouth started working automatically. “I’m uh, gonna need some clarification here, Dep. ‘Cause I’m picking up on some-some very interesting vibes, but like, I don’t want to be disrespectful or nothing if I’m mistaken. So like, for the sake of clarity and not in any way that would detract from, y’know, our whole name-takin’, ass-kickin’ dynamic, is it cool if I kiss you?”

They laughed, pulling his hand to their face and grazing their lips over his knuckles, sending white shocks snapping up his spine.

“That’s a yes, right?” he asked numbly, leaning over them at their prompting, hiking a leg over to straddle them properly. Boy if it wasn’t, things’d be real awkward in a sec when they felt how hard he was.

“Fuck yes, Sharky,” they said with a fond smile, reaching up and threading their fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him down into a long, sweet kiss that tasted a little like Milky Ways, and his doubts flew apart, blowing away and around the rink with the glittering light thrown off of the disco ball as the music swelled.


End file.
